The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  “Too…late.” Boar struggled for breath.

  “No.” Kath shook her head in denial, but she knew he spoke the truth.

  Slick with sweat, he gazed at her, gentle brown eyes in a face tattooed with a fierce boar, a warrior who’d become her friend. A single tear fell on his cheek. Boar struggled to speak, his gaze turning cloudy. “For the Svala…” Life fled from his body. She shook him, willing him to live, but it made no difference. Kath closed his eyes, and settled him on the cold marble floor.

  “He’s gone, Bear.” Her voice cracked with sorrow.

  “Svala, this one still lives.”

  Kath stood. Her sword in her hand, she strode toward the assassin.

  Clad all in black, a baldric of nine throwing knives slung across his chest, the assassin lay sprawled on the dark marble. Arms and legs askew, he looked stunted and broken, her axe buried in his chest. Blood frothed from the axe wound, and from the side of his mouth, yet his gaze was razor keen, locked on hers. “Just…a…girl,” his voice wheezed with blood.

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “A girl...defiling…master’s…throne” His gaze hardened, his face flushed with pain. “You…will die…screaming.”

  Anger thrummed through her. “Not today.” Her sword flashed down. “For Boar.” With a single stroke, she severed his throat. Blood spurted from the wound, staining the dark marble.

  And then she heard the clash of steel. “Blaine!” Tugging her axe from the assassin’s chest, Kath raced toward the sound. In the rear wall of the basilica, a door stood open, torchlight glowing from within. The doorway led to a narrow corridor, a corpse slumped at the far end, black robes suggesting a priest. Beyond the corridor, steel clashed against steel. Kath followed the sound, her sword in her right hand, her throwing axe in her left, her deerskin boots silent on the marble floor. A bitter stench clogged the hallway, rankling her nose. Reaching the far doorway, she peered inside.

  Blaine fought two dark-robed priests, his blue sword beating against two gleaming sickles. His back to the doorway, he attacked the far priest, landing a killing blow. The priest howled in pain, yet he clutched the blue blade with blood-slick hands, keeping it embedded deep in his stomach. While Blaine’s sword was entangled, the second priest lunged from behind, wielding a vicious swing of the sickle.

  “No!” Kath leaped forward, her sword meeting the sickle.

  Steel clanged against steel.

  Startled, the priest whirled, slashing at her. Kath stepped close, loosing a downward slash. Her sword struck flesh, severing the priest’s hand. The silver sickle clattered to the floor but the priest never slowed. Shrieking like a banshee, he shoved his bloody stump into her face. Clawing at her eyes with his remaining hand, he tried bite her face, his lips blackened, his teeth snapping close, his eyes glazed like a ghoul.

  Horrified, Kath lurched backwards, struggling to bring her weapons to bear.

  The rabid priest clutched at her, teeth snapping, his breath horrid on her face.

  Kath squirmed away.

  Suddenly the priest was jerked backwards. Blaine hurled the rabid fiend across the chamber. Slamming against the far wall, he crumpled to the floor, knocking over a lit brazier. Before the priest could rise, Bear was on him. One blow of his sword took the head from the body.

  Kath gasped, wiping the blood from her face. “What was that…thing?” She shuddered, staring down at the severed head.

  Blaine answered while stomping on coals spilled from the brazier. “A priest chained to Vetra.”

  Dead priests littered the floor, all of them with blackened lips and sunken eyes. She nudged one with her boot, making sure it was dead. “Vetra?”

  “A sacred herb they use for trances.” Blaine poked a corpse with his sword. “Too much holy herb and they turn into ravening ghouls. Eat enough of it and it kills them.”

  “It’s not killing them fast enough.” Kath coughed, choking on the bitter smoke clouding the chamber. “How do you know this?”

  Blaine gave her a hard look. “I’ve been hunting priests.”

  Kath heard the rebuke in his voice.

  “Did you enjoy sitting on the throne?”

  She gaped at the anger in his voice.

  Bear answered. “An assassin attacked us.”

  Blaine raised an eyebrow. “An assassin?”

  Bear nodded. “Clad in black, he moved like a spider.”

  “Boar is dead. Slain by the assassin.” Kath’s voice sounded flat and lifeless. “He will be sorely missed.”

  Bear gave her a solemn nod. “He died an honorable death, protecting the Svala. The Ancestor will long sing his name.” Bear stared at her, an odd look on his tattooed face. Crossing the room, he reached out, plucking a dart from Kath’s chest. Lodged in the leather harness of her axes, the dart had missed her heart by a finger’s width.

  Kath shuddered, feeling the nearness of death.

  Bear held the dart towards Blaine. “The assassin fought like a coward, using poisoned darts.” Giving Kath a fierce look, he hurled the dart into the gloom. “Not today.”

  She gave him a slow nod. “Not today.” Sheathing her sword, she surveyed the chamber. Runes covered the walls, polished onyx inlaid in gray granite. The chamber appeared to be a small chapel converted to a hiding hole for the priests. Bedrolls and bulging sacks were shoved along one wall, but it was the altar that caught Kath’s gaze. A black stone altar dominated the far wall, and on that altar sat a small ornate box, gold bejeweled with dark diamonds. “What’s that?”

  Blaine shrugged. “Their hiding holes are full of trinkets and treasures.” Climbing the dais, he flipped open the lid. “Well look at this!” Surprise rode his voice. Reaching into the box, he removed a pale shard of crystal the length of a small dagger.

  Kath gaped to see it. Climbing the dais, she unsheathed the crystal dagger and held it next to the shard. One was a sharpened dagger with a small cross-hilt, the other a rough shard of pale quartz, a tooth plucked from the depths of the earth. Both looked to be made of the same crystal.

  “Is it?”

  Kath nodded. “What the monks use to test for harlequins.”

  “What’s it doing here?” Blaine gestured to the bejeweled box. “And why treat it like a holy relic?”

  Understanding struck. “Because the Mordant subverts the weapons of Light to Darkness. Somehow the Mordant used this crystal to his advantage. He turns our own strengths against us.” Kath shuddered to hear her own words, like a portent of doom, but the answer felt right, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. “We need to show this to Zith.”

  They searched the chapel, but found nothing else of significance. Returning to the throne room, Kath knelt by Boar’s body. Whispering a prayer to Valin, she bid him farewell. Taking a deep breath, she gathered herself and surveyed the throne room one last time. “I want Boar buried next to Duncan. And I want the gold stripped from the dais and put to a better use. And I want the throne burned, released from its terrible service.”

  Beneath her boots, the basilica shuddered and shook.

  Bear gave her a solemn nod. “It will be as you command, Svala.”

  “And I will never come here again.” Kath turned and strode from the basilica, fingering the crystalline shard. Weapons of Light turned to Darkness, she shivered, making the hand sign against evil.

  18

  The Knight Marshal

  The marshal stood in the stirrups, watching the enemy pour down the mountain trail. He judged the odds to be three to one against, yet he refused to sound the retreat. “Form the line!”

  Maroon knights answered his call, presenting an armored line across the bloodstained valley.

  The marshal raised his sword, “For Honor and the Octagon!” Putting spurs to his mount, he led the charge. Hooves churned the bloody snow as arrows sang from the forest. The maroon struck at a gallop, hitting the enemy like a massive battering ram. Swords rang against axes and men died beneath ironshod hooves. At first it was a rout, the maroon’
s heavy horses plowing into the enemy, the speed of the gallop making scythes of their swords, but then the charge slowed and the swarm brought their numbers to bear. The line crumbled into individual battles, small knots of maroon surrounded by churning black, a chaotic swirl of kill or be killed. The marshal fought side-by-side with Sir Abrax, two great swords carving a circle of death, but the press of the enemy never slowed. Stroke and parry, he struggled to keep his seat. Sweat stung his eye and his sword arm ached, yet he endured. Fight or die, he steered his horse with his knees, swinging his great sword at the nearest foe.

  A shout rose from the enemy and the ferocity of the fight trebled. The black tide surged around him, threatening to devour the maroon. The marshal stood in the stirrups, trying to make sense of the battle.

  “They’ve got an ogre!” Sir Abrax pointed and the marshal saw it was true. Towering head and shoulders above mere men, the ogre waded into battle, wielding death with each swing of its massive war club. As the marshal watched, it crushed the skull of a horse with a single blow and then aimed a back-handed slap at the rider, hurling the knight from the saddle. Black-cloaked soldiers swarmed the fallen knight like roaches to a feeding frenzy.

  The battle tide was turning, slipping away from the maroon. Standing in the stirrups, the marshal yelled, “Kill the ogre!”

  Sir Abrax lifted his blue sword in acknowledgment and began cutting a path to the ogre. The marshal angled his horse to approach the beast from its left side, fighting his way through a tangle of foot soldiers.

  At the heart of the field, Sir Abrax reached the ogre, his sapphire sword gleaming like a beacon in the afternoon light. The ogre bellowed, swinging its studded war club in a deadly arc. A fearsome sight, the hulking ogre dwarfed the knight. Bulging with muscles, it had freakishly long arms and a giant’s crushing strength. Clad in furs, it seemed more beast than man.

  The marshal urged his horse forward, refusing to let Sir Abrax fight alone. Hacking his way through the press, he carved a path to the center. “Knights to me! To me!”

  Mounds of bodies surrounded the ogre, a grizzly rampart of the dead and dying. The marshal asked his horse to a gallop, leaping the carnage. At the height of the jump, he gained a clear view of the ogre, watching in horror as Sir Abrax went down, his horse felled by the ogre’s punch. “Fight me!” Spurring his horse, the marshal closed the distance. He bellowed a war cry as his stallion barreled into the ogre.

  Hit in the chest, the ogre stumbled backward, a startled look in piggish eyes, but it did not fall. It did not fall. So close, the marshal could see the stubble on the ogre’s lantern jaw, its cruel teeth filed to points. Snarling, the ogre lashed out with a ham-handed fist, punching the marshal in the chest. The fist struck like a battering ram. Pain exploded in the marshal’s chest. Starved for air, he felt crushed. Something struck him from behind. Stunned, he realized he’d hit the ground. Floundering in the snow, he gasped for breath while trying to avoid his horse’s plunging hooves. A spiked war-club struck the ground, narrowly missing his head. The marshal rolled away. His great sword glittered in the snow. He lunged for it. Grabbing the sword, he staggered to his feet. The massive war club swung in his direction. The marshal raised his sword, braced to parry. Wood struck steel, a mighty blow that nearly forced him to his knees. His sword bit deep, embedded in the club. The marshal tugged, but his sword was stuck fast. The ogre twisted the club, wrenching the sword from his hands.

  Cruel laughter rumbled from the ogre, a terrible mocking sound. “Now you die!”

  The marshal stood his ground, unsheathing his dagger.

  The ogre hefted his war club for the killing blow.

  Sir Abrax sprang from the mound of corpses like a knight resurrected from the dead. His blue sword flashed, severing the ogre’s descending fist, cleaving the hand from the arm. The ogre roared in pain, droplets of blood spattering like red rain. One-handed, the ogre flailed its club, smashing circles of death, heedless of friend or foe.

  The marshal staggered backwards. Avoiding a vicious swing, he tripped over a corpse. The dead man held a spear. A spear! Dropping his dagger, he took up the spear and rushed the ogre. Somehow he got inside the club’s fearsome swing. With a roar, he thrust for the ogre’s abdomen. The leaf-shaped blade bit deep. Eight-inches of cold steel embedded in the beast’s belly. The ogre bellowed in pain but it did not die. It did not die! The marshal clung to the blood-slicked shaft, twisting the spear to disembowel the beast. A horrible stench filled the air. Beside him, Sir Abrax rained blows on the ogre’s thick hide. Just when it seemed the beast would never die, the ogre made a gurgling noise and toppled backwards, felled like tree.

  Releasing the spear, the marshal staggered backwards, flicking a grateful glance at Sir Abrax. “What happened to you? I thought you dead.”

  The knight planted a booted foot on the ogre’s war club. “The ogre punched my horse. With one blow, it killed my mount and then the poor horse fell on me. Took me a while to get loose.” Yanking the trapped sword from the club’s fierce bite, he tossed it to the marshal. “If you hadn’t come, the ogre would have ground my bones to dust. Behind you!”

  The marshal whirled, raising his sword to block an axe blow. The battle resumed in a rush. Ignoring his exhaustion, he fought for his life. Stroke and parry, the fighting seemed to drag on to forever, but then he heard the horn, three short blasts followed by one long note. The marshal grinned, knowing it had to be Gravis. He risked a glance toward the far side of the valley, relieved to see maroon knights galloping down the mountain trail. Two hundred knights attacked with lances lowered. Panic claimed the enemy. Instead of fighting, they began to run. The battle became a rout.

  The fighting swept passed him. Desperate to catch his breath, the marshal leaned on his sword, watching as younger knights finished the battle. The falling snow trickled to a stop and the air seemed warmer, or perhaps it was just his body heat rising like steam from beneath his armor. Exhausted and aching, he surveyed the field. Snow ran red with blood, the valley littered with the dead and dying. He found himself standing near the ogre’s corpse. Sir Abrax kicked its booted foot. “How many of these do you think they have?”

  The marshal raised his visor, relishing the cold against his face. “Whatever the number it’s too many.”

  Sir Gravis approached at a trot, his sword dripping red with blood, his warhorse slick with sweat. “The field is ours.”

  The marshal nodded. “What took you?”

  Sir Gravis scowled. “They set a rear guard. We had to fight our way through.”

  The answer made sense but it felt like a sword blow to the marshal’s gut. “They’re changing tactics. They expected an attack from the rear.” He wondered what other surprises the enemy had in store, but he was too weary to think. “Tend to the wounded, count the dead, and loot the enemy, we need to be gone from here.”

  Sir Gravis saluted and wheeled his horse away.

  The marshal glanced at Sir Abrax. “We best find mounts.” He searched the field till he found his stallion cropping grass from an opening pawed in the snow. Relieved to find his horse alive, he approached with soft words. “You did well, my friend. You deserve an apple.” Feeling a rumble in the pit of his stomach, the marshal added, “We both deserve apples. Pity we have none.” It hurt just to swing into the saddle. Every part of his body ached, his chest worst of all. He thanked Valin his armor hadn’t crumpled beneath the ogre’s blow.

  “Water. Give me water.”

  The marshal heard the weak plea and traced it to a mound of bodies. Dismounting, he found a maroon knight lying amongst the enemy, blood drenching his surcoat.

  “Water?”

  He knelt, gently removing the man’s battered helm. “Devlan!” Recognition hit like a hammer-blow. The squire was newly raised to a knight, barely old enough to shave and now he’d seen his last battle. Sick at heart, the marshal held a flask to the lad’s lips, wishing it was brandy instead of water. “Drink, for you fought well.”

  “My Lord M
arshal!” The lad gulped at the ice-cold water but his gaze was full of questions. “Victory?”

  “Yes, victory. And judging from the dead around you, you’ve brought honor to the maroon.” A crooked smile graced the lad’s face. The marshal held him close while his gaze searched the lad’s wound. A foul smell told the tale, a fearful cut through the bowels, but judging from the lad’s pallor the pain was almost over. The marshal sat with him, cradling his head till his eyes glazed over. Death came without a sound. Straightening the body, the marshal found a sword and placed it in his hands. He bowed his head and sent a prayer to Valin, “A worthy squire and a promising knight, you should have seen more than one victory.” Laden with bitterness, the marshal swung back into the saddle. He felt old, so old, yet there was no one else to lead the Octagon.

  He rode back through the carnage, offering words of encouragement to the wounded while counting the living. Too many knights lay dead, perhaps a third of his force, yet the battle was won. It seemed a hollow victory.

  Someone hailed his name. He turned to find Lothar cantering towards him, but instead of a roan stallion he rode a bay mare. Seeing his friend, the marshal struggled to keep the relief from his voice. “I see you’ve found a new horse.”

  Lothar offered him a lopsided grin. “Glad to see you too. Guess we’re both too tough to kill.”

  “The young are always the first to fall.” The marshal winced at the bitterness lacing his voice. “What happened to your horse?”

  “Savaged by one of those damn hellhounds. I found myself afoot and lost you in the fray.”

  “And the mare?”

  Lothar grimaced. “Belonged to Sparlin. He won’t be needing a horse no more.”

  Another young one struck down, the marshal spared a moment to remember the young blonde-haired knight with the ready smile.

  Lothar nudged him out of his grim thoughts. “At least the ambush worked.”